


Cities

by MissGuenever



Series: Luxury and Loss [3]
Category: Leverage, Rescue: Special Ops
Genre: Between Episodes, Food, Gen, Herding Cats, Navy, Oh the experiences we've had, Oh the places we've been, Restaurants, Shoes, Travel, U.S. Navy SEALs, Veterans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-10-04 19:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20476661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGuenever/pseuds/MissGuenever
Summary: A series of ficlets with observations about cities around the US and the world. Mostly about Eliot; but, with little snippits of everyone else.  Tags will be added as needed.





	1. Singapore

**Author's Note:**

> I started this series in 2012 over on Fanfiction.net; and just recently decided to rewrite and add to it. This is a part of the greater Luxuries and Loss Series; but, can easily be read as a stand-alone. I need to send a shout-out to Gaben who tirelessly betaed it.

Singapore, it wasn’t a city that Eliot Spencer particularly cared for. Okay, the Asian Civilizations Museum was nice. There was some good food at the little food stalls in the back alley’s; alright there was really good food. But, he still stood out like a sore thumb. His 'colleague' Steve had phrased it best: A haole. 

A haole. It was a word generally associated with Hawaii; but, it worked in Singapore too. In Hawaii it meant that he was white. It was pretty much a racial slur, kind of like nigger. Actually it wasn’t like a racial slur – it was a racial slur. In Singapore it meant that he couldn’t really find someplace to hole up. He’d stick out in the usual rat-holes where in western countries he could hole up for a few days and heal until he was well enough to travel home, and no one would notice if he was bruised and battered. Well, in Singapore the problem was he was the only round-eyed person in those places. And if he went to a nice hotel, one that had Michelin stars or something like that attached to the name he got really weird looks when he checked in and often a phone call or visit from the police asking what had happened to him.

That left out the rat-hole hotels because people could easily find him. So that meant he needed to check into nice hotels, with an elaborate cover story. Something that could be confirmed, which meant he needed to find out where the MMA matches were, or boxing and explain that to the cops that he was transiting back to the United States after a fight. Because, unlike cops in the United States: The Singapore police would actually check on his cover story. Damned annoying…

But, the upside of being in Singapore was that when he was healed there was some phenomenal food available! And after a few days of living on room-service food good local food was always a nice change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Asian Civilizations Museum is awesome; especially the Peranakan annex.


	2. Albuquerque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh the places we've been. Oh the places we've seen. And a huge shout-out to Gaben who tirelessly betaed this fic!

Albuquerque was a good city. Eliot ran his fingers through his hair as he half-listened to Parker talk about some exhibit that was getting ready to move to Albuquerque. While he was tying his bandana around his hair Hardison started spouting off crap about museum exhibits. Stuff like: Traveling exhibits was a wonderful way for museums to increase foot traffic without the huge cost of adding to their collections. Apparently Hardison had read an article on it somewhere or, something like that. Probably some blog or chat room thing or something like that.

Yeah, Eliot had been to Albuquerque a few times. Still thought it was kind of weird that the city had two Qs in it; but, they didn’t ask him when they’d decided to spell it that way. The college down near the Nob Hill neighborhood meant that there were some great restaurants in town; and bars with plenty of pretty young ladies! Not a thing that could be overlooked, especially since UNM had a dance department.

And then there was that time at Candalaria’s Gentleman’s Club. He and Shelley had snuck off base… Yep, that had been a good evening. Hell to pay the next day; but, it had been a great evening out. It had been one of the last night’s they gone out before they’d left for… Well, that was still classified. Eliot pasted a growl on his face and looked around at the crew; nope none of them had caught him thinking about that night.

After that Eliot had been back to the area a couple of times for a variety of reasons. That time in October when he’d been there for some other stuff and stayed for the Hot Air Balloon festival still made him smile even years later. Making love at a thousand feet above Sandia Mountain was not something that should be missed! Rose; that was her name, and… Ohh… 

The bowl of posole she’d made for dinner later topped off a wonderful day. The slow simmered pork, pork shanks, hominy, garlic, onion, and pork rind. That hint of oregano and the bite of dried chili were a lot like the love they made on her dining room table. 

Staring into the fridge Eliot saw the package of tortilla’s he’d picked up at Mamacita’s yesterday on his way into town. Eva ran a small restaurant on the outskirts of town and made everything fresh, which included her tortillas. He’d seen her making them one morning, and she’d shown him how. They were just like her mother made, well except for the automated tortilla press; but, that was necessary to turn out the better part of a thousand tortillas a day.

He rustled around and found the pork shoulder he’d gotten from the organic rancher up in Litchfield, NH earlier in the week. He’d also gotten steaks from one hundred percent grass raised cattle. It was always fun to talk with Steve, he was from South Africa and they’d been to some of the same places. They’d met when Eliot went looking for sources of locally produced sustainable and organic meats. God forbid anyone try and make Nate, Hardison or Parker vegetarians! Sophie, well… She’d pretend for a few days.

Posole, he’d make posole. They had pork rinds for Hardison, tomatoes he’d put up last summer, hominy from the organic market, and onions, garlic, and dried oregano and chilies. The oregano and chilies were from his garden! He’d dried them in the fall in his pantry. Oh, this would be a good dinner: Thank you Rose for not only showing him the spicy side of life; but, her posole recipe! He chuckled to himself as Hardison did something wonky with the computer stuff again, they even had cabbage, lime, and radishes to work as garnish. The cabbage and the radishes he’d slice very thin, and the limes he’d wedge.

Oh and he did have a couple of mangos. So he could probably make a couple of pitchers of frozen mango margaritas for Hardison. Maggie had been making frozen margaritas the last time they’d talked; and Eliot knew that they were preferred type of drink for both of them. And he could probably even find an umbrella for Hardison’s drink!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The margaritas are a complete and utter shout out for Sprite91360’s awesome fic series on fanfiction.net called Phone Calls. And the posole recipe, it’s the one I learned from a friends mom.


	3. Washington DC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot reminisces about his time in the greater Washington DC area, the DMV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks everyone for making this a series! I thought this would totally be a one-shot. And now I’m up to three. Who knew?!?! And here’s the shout-out for **Sprite 91360** and her fantabulous (that is now a word!) series on Fanfiction.net called  Phonecalls’s! Gotta love it  Thanks so much for the inspiration. **Gaben**, thanks so much for being my always patient beta! And for the idea on the peanuts.

They’d done the Monica Hunter job. Eliot had gone back to Washington DC. Well, the Pentagon wasn’t quite in Washington DC; but, it was close enough. Like all his classmates and a lot of his service buddies, he had a hatred of all things DC and Pentagon. The politics, the self-serving attitudes, and the urgency of everything. Even interoffice memos discussing donuts had to be signed off by a star or the civilian equivalent, an SES. And if you didn’t know what an SES was, they’d tell you in no uncertain terms. “Young man, do you know what I am?” And then you’d get “I’m the equivalent of an Admiral.” Yes, power trips; it was all power trips of one type or another.  


This was his version of Hell; Dante’s seventh ring of Hell. Like Dante’s Hell it was guarded although not my minotaurs it was guarded by bureaucrats. Washington DC was worse than Cambodia, Serbia, and well a lot of other hell-holes he’d been through. And to make it even worse Nate had felt that they needed to go into this stench filled hell. The mastermind had felt that he needed to send him back into this hell.  
Washington DC pretty much sucked. It didn’t even have any good sports teams. Eliot had read an article once which theorized that DC didn’t have a good arts scene or any decent sports teams because there weren’t any natives in the city. Nope, everyone that was anyone in the city wasn’t a native. Which meant that they rooted for the Boston Red Sox, San Francisco Forty-Niners, Manchester United, Real Madrid, Wallabies Rugby, or whatever rugby, football, baseball, American football team that represented the cities they called home. Yeah, in the eighteen months Eliot had spent in the greater Washington DC area he’d met two Washington Redskin fans; one was the electrician that had redone the housing on base. His father had been brought up in Anacostia, and the other had been the janitor who was born and raised in Southern Maryland. Not truly Washington DC, but he’d gone down to the boondocks that were called Calvert County and had discovered a land that time had forgotten. There were areas that were still segregated; families that had lived on one road since the civil war. It was truly a place that time forgot!  


That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. While he’d been driving down to see the Brown’s Eliot had gotten a flat tire; instead of having to change the tire himself he’d been driven to the local pick and pull junk yard and gotten help picking out a new tire, been given lunch and sweet tea. And nothing had been asked in exchange. The hitter had been thankful enough that he’d spent pretty much every weekend with the Brown’s. He’d helped them put up a new tobacco barn, cut hay fields, pull in crabs, gone to their daughter’s second’s cousin’s baptism, cooked for them, and taken Auntie Ada Prudence to the hospital when she’d gone into heart failure. For a short time they had been a family to him. They’d been a family to him until he’d had to PCS, which was what the military called moving.  


There wasn’t even any good food in the DC area. Eliot wracked his memory trying to associate any good food he’d eaten in this hell hole. There had been some really good meals down with the Browns. He’d taken a date to the Mall and they’d gone through a couple of museums and the peanuts they’d gotten from a street vendor had been really good. Tucson Arizona had the best Vietnamese food he’d had outside of Vietnam. Buenos Aires had the most amazing fish and chips. Maggie had told him about the fish and chips place; and she’d been right. It had been an amazing meal; not a great trip. The hitter had stopped there on his way back home from somewhere else.  


Pizza. The best pizza was in Manhattan, well other than that place where Pria had been making dough… Pria… Pria… Ummm… yeah… New York City had some really amazing food; a lot better than Washington DC!  


So, skipping Pria, and food, and sports, that left museums. The Washington area museums pretty much sucked too. They didn’t get the good exhibits, and what they had was pretty forgettable. Plus, they even coiled the fucking boa. The world’s largest boa constrictor and the Smithsonian showed it all coiled up. They didn’t show it stretched out in its fifty feet of glory. Nope you got to see it in a lump of coiled snake. Whoop… Fun… Not really, boring!  


Yes, Washington DC pretty much sucked!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And buried in here are the references to Phone Calls. A great set of fics. Read them! And then read the rest of my fics. And for anyone who doesn’t live or work in the soul-sucking bureaucracy that is the greater Washington DC area SES stands for Senior Executive Service. So an SES is the equivalent of a flag officer (Admiral, General, …). And PCS stands for Permanent Change of Station, it’s what you do when you change bases.


	4. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot spending some time reflecting on Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos! You taking the time for it really means a lot! **Gaben**, thank you so much for being my always patient beta!

Paris was Sophie’s city. At least that is what she’d always told everyone on the team. And she’d told them plenty of times! She’d told them about the shopping the Triangle d'Or; and Avenue Montaigne, which had Chanel, Avenue des Champs-Elysées which had Louis Vuitton, and Hermes which was on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. If he had to hear about one more major designer or too cute boutique Eliot was going to scream!  
The Paris Sophie knew was a lot different than the one Eliot knew. He’d discovered Paris on one of his first jobs as a retrieval specialist. The hitter had checked into a bed and breakfast about a kilometer from the job he’d been doing. He’d gotten pretty banged up, but thought that he’d done a pretty good job of patching himself up. Well, that had been until he’d checked in and had gotten clucked over by Fatimah and her husband Henrí. Henrí had been in the French Foreign Legion for many years and knew exactly what he was looking at: A shoulder which had just been relocated, bruised ribs, and a few contusions for good luck. On top of what was going to be a nifty set of bruises. Well, three weeks later Eliot had checked out; and Henrí and Fatimah Villeneuve had put on a couple of pounds and their bed and breakfast had a new chef whenever he was in town. And the retrieval specialist had gotten himself not only a safe house; but, a nurse and a pair of good friends for life! And in Eliot’s profession friends like the Villeneuve’s meant a lot.  


Yeah, Paris meant a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Sophie saw the shopping, Parker saw shiny things to steal, Nate saw remnants of his marriage to Maggie, and Hardison… Well, Eliot was pretty sure that Hardison saw Paris like he saw every other city. A place with free Wi-Fi.  


To Eliot, Paris was not so much La Ville-Lumière: The City of Light; but, more of a place of freedom. Henrí and Fatimah had given him a sanctuary a place where he could just be Eliot; Eliot Spencer. Eliot Spencer, a man who loved to cook; a man who loved to sing; and a man that loved to spend time with friends. He wasn’t a retrieval specialist, a hitter, hired muscle… He was a no one in Paris; and that was nice!  


As it was with so many places, Lahore, Albuquerque, Singapore, Eliot’s memories of Paris were formed around food, or retrievals. His first memories of Paris were Fatimah’s Eierflöckchensuppe. A mouthful of a name for a simple egg drop soup which she fed him while he was too sore to do much more than lift his head. The soup wasn’t Turkish, like Fatimah; but, Austrian. And in her slight accent Fatimah told Eliot about the guest that had taught her how to make Eierflöckchensuppe. Now whenever he was sick or hurt Eliot made, or had delivered egg drop soup; preferably Eierflöckchensuppe. And in Boston he’d even found a small Eastern European restaurant run by an Austrian guy who made Eierflöckchensuppe almost as good as Fatimah’s.  


They’d spent hours listening to Sophie prattle on about the shopping and the restaurants. The restaurants she kept talking about were all A-list type of places. Places where being seen was as important as the quality of the food, and reservations were almost impossible to get. The places that Henri and Fatimah had shown him were usually tucked away in back alleys or had superhero’s painted on the walls. Gawd, there was one little pub that Eliot loved late at night. L’Ami Jean made the best rice pudding with pistachio brittle, crème anglaise, and dulce de leche. Eliot had tried to recreate it, time and time again; but, he couldn’t quite get the pistachio brittle right.  


Sophie would drag Nate to the white tablecloth places like Benoit, where they’d eat escargots, cassoulet and tarte Tatin. And they’d do it with their pinky’s held high in the air. Eliot, Fatimah, and Henri would meet at Le Cambodge and gorge on simple Cambodian food and talk about jobs and operations they’d done in Asia. They’d eat be cha gio and compare scars, they’d wolf down the porc au caramel and bitch about the weather, then finish off a third bottle of wine discuss upcoming sporting events. The food at Le Cambodge wasn’t as good as that place near the Cambodian border with Laos and Vietnam. That place was a small restaurant which surprisingly both Henrí and Eliot had eaten at, although at very different times.  


Or the three of them would sit around the two hundred year old farm table in the Villeneuve’s kitchen and snack on Shakshuka, made from the eggplants just picked in the garden, while dinner cooked. When it was just the three of them Fatimah would make the dishes she’d grown up eating: Tavuk Tandir, chicken with oregano; mounds of fluffy rice pilaf; and fresh baked bread. Fatimah was from the southern part of Turkey, and she’d grown up in a small apartment which had grape vines climbing up the side of the building. She told them stories of reaching out the window and eating grapes straight from the vines. Over dessert, Kaymakli Ayva Tatlisi, quince with heavy cream, and another bottle of wine she’d retell the story of how she’d met her handsome uniformed Legionnaire. This was his Paris; friends and good food, not seeing and being seen..  


Although, there was one restaurant which Eliot would put a tie on for willingly: Chez Georges. Chez Georges was a wonderful little bistro. Going to Chez Georges was a spiritual experience. Eliot had read a biography of Julia Child and in the book it waxed poetic about Chez Georges and how this restaurant was one of the Julia’s favorites. The door to the restaurant was almost hidden; and it didn’t look like anything had changed since the place had opened almost a hundred years earlier. Henri’s second cousin a beautiful young Mademoiselle named Nanine had taken Eliot there. The tables were packed so close together that to sit against the wall; Eliot had needed to actually move the table for Nanine. They had shared wine, rillettes, duck cooked in duck fat, and then for dessert they’d had tarte au poire, a phenomenal pear tart. Eating there had been amazing; the whole meal Eliot had felt the spirit of Julia Child looking down on him.  


Yes, the hitter knew Paris. He could even appreciate Paris; but, still there were other places he much preferred to eat in France. Lyon with their specialty of saucisson pistaché, a pork sausage with pistachios. Continuing down Route Seven to Valence, or the gateway to the region of Provence, and their specialty of pan bagnat. Pan bagnat, which was nothing fancy; but, Eliot’s favorite was served at a roadside stand just outside town. It was an open faced sandwich, with niçoise salad on it and lightly fried fresh anchovies. Or freshly caught duarade, sometimes called dorade or sea bream doused in ratatouille that was another amazing meal! Yeah, Sophie could have Paris; Eliot would take almost anywhere else in France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the shopping and the restaurants are real! Check out the foodie magazines and maybe a guidebook or two. I’m even pretty sure that I got the addresses right. And someday I’ll eat my way across France. Someday… And **Gaben**: Thanks so much for the idea on the Bed and Breakfast. Shakshuka is a classic Turkish dip made from eggplant, potato, hot peppers, garlic and tomato. All the other Turkish dishes are real; I’m just not in the mood to add the recipes. Google them if you want. They are really good!  
And then once you review my glorious fic go forth and read the rest of totally amazing fics.


	5. Australia is in Oregon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse was dead and **gaben** suggested that I do a city in Australia; thank you so much! And while this isn’t quite in the realm of my other city stories; I think the spirit is there. I’m boycotting the last couple of Leverage episodes! I won’t watch them! Won’t do it! They didn’t cancel the show, nope they didn’t. And as always **gaben**: Thank you so much for being an awesome beta!

It had started with the cricket crowd. On a really slow Tuesday evening, Hardison had put a cricket match on the television over the bar, and that had snowballed… into becoming a thing. A brewpub thing.  
The first couple weeks there had been a couple of South African ex-pats, then they’d been joined by a couple of English guys, and then it had become a mixing bowl with all of Australasia, the Indian sub-continent, the West Indies, actually most of the UK was represented! And as such, the food they served changed a little week by week.  


They’d started showcasing more finger foods on the Tuesday special boards, things like: Pasanda kebab, a spicy lamb kebab that Aunti Tari had taught him to make in Lahore. Then came the Jamaican salt fish fritters with spicy pepper sauce, jerked chicken wings that he’d learned to make from a Chief in the Navy. Samosa; the spicy Indian potato dumplings kind of like empanadas were also on the Tuesday menu. For the Brits there was Toad-In-A-Hole, Yorkshire pudding with sausages in them. Hardison had kind of poked at it and declared it a waste of good sausage until he’d eaten about six of them! And one of Sophie’s favorites usually made its way onto the rotating menu at least once a month: Welsh Rarebit, the beery cheese concoction kind of like fondue that they served with buttered toast points.  


After a couple months of Tuesday cricket, Johan, one of the South African’s demanded to know why there was no South African food. They had British, Indian, Caribbean, … pretty much everyone else’s palettes were represented but his. Abe, short for Abrahem, had vigorously agreed, so the next night he’d shown up with fuzzy Xeroxed recipes and explained that his mother had faxed them from Johannesburg. And so pecan crusted chicken strips and falafel; which is North African but, Eliot wasn’t going to point it out to Abe, and then fried plantains found their way into the rotation.  


A few months after the Tuesday nights started, an Australian had wandered in wearing a Wallabies hat, mumbling that he was missing his mum’s Sunday dinner. It was a quiet night near the holidays and Hardison through the miracles of the internet managed to find a Football game on some obscure channel being broadcast, at only a slight time delay, from Australia which cheered the bloke up. Kevin, he said his name was, after he’d finished his second pint of beer, Eliot wandered into the bar area after hearing from Susie that some sad guy with a weird accent was taking up all of Hardison’s time. Eliot had spent some in Australia, doing some training in Swanbourne with the SAS; and then later doing some retrieval jobs. He had some pretty good memories of Oz.  


“I miss my mum’s Sunday roast. You Yanks just don’t do it right.” The Aussie continued on about the things that were just different and wrong… His rant was rather reminiscent of one of Hardison’s and covered everything from beer that was too warm, burnt bacon to Burger King; chocolate thickshakes to crosswalk signs; and Kelpies riding in the back of utes! And that the Australia got it right when they called it Hungry Jack’s; a much better bloody name!  


“Uh huh…” Alec rolled his eyes at Eliot who raised an eyebrow when he saw the three fingers go up; it meant that he’d been through this three times already. Although, Alec had picked up a useful tidbit which you never knew when it would come in handy: Australian crosswalk signals both chirped and clicked.  


Not usually being much of a people person; but, food was something he could talk about at length, and his SAS friend, Lachie Gallagher had brought him to his parent’s house in Sydney for Sunday roast a few times, so he could understand waxing poetic about it. “I get it.” Those dinners had been crazy! Lachie was the middle brother, Dean and Chase bracketed him as the older and younger in that order. Quite a useful family, Dean and Chase were paramedics. Eliot had used their services on the down-low a couple of times.  


“Huh?” Kevin, who the hacker quickly introduced to Eliot as he disappeared into the back mumbling about paperwork and payroll.  


“Sunday roast. I get it.” The hitter looked up at the clock and drew himself a small glass of beer; it was a quiet night and they’d already sent two people home early. “The platters of backed pumpkin and sweet potatoes, steamed brussel sprouts, boiled green beans, gravy boats, and jugs of homemade mint jelly.” Eliot’s eyes got a little misty as he thought about that particular meal with Lachie’s family. “The roast leg of lamb on its own platter; watching the meat juice drip out of it as it’s carved.” He took a sip of the hoppy beer and repeated himself, “I get it. Dinner, and the game of footie after.”  


Kevin swore he could feel the drool starting. “You do get it. You really do!” He said reverently as he took another swig of beer. “Me mum used to do potatoes, turnips, and carrots with a roast beef and seeded mustard sauce on the side.”  


“Garlic?”  


“Eh?”  


“I always put garlic cloves into the roast and rub the outside with herbs and little bit of dry mustard before I put it in the oven.”  


“Ohh… Sounds good. The wife always uses rosemary; lots and lots of rosemary.”  


“Yeah, it is.”  


“Prissy says Sunday roast isn’t about the food, it’s about the company.” Kevin shook his head sadly thinking about the overcooked vegetables, Gravox gravy, hollandaise sauce from the packet, and dry meat she inevitably put out on Sunday’s. Although, he’d had many great memories of sitting at that Sunday table with her, their kids, and good friends – and typically wine. Quite a bit of wine. Plus, the game on the telly after the food.  


“Prissy?”  


“Me misses; the wife.” Kevin grabbed his wallet and pulled out a dog-eared picture showing a smiling brunette, and three stair-step kids. Young teenagers it looked like. “Priscilla, My Prissy.” He pointed at the woman. “Been married almost twenty years.”  


“Huh. Cute kids.” Eliot was never sure what to say to this type of thing; the small talk about kids with acne and faces full of metal baffled him. He did chuckle; when he’d first met Lachie’s family, Chase had the acne, the teen attitude, and the braces.  


“Yeah, Kalinda” He pointed to the middle step, a sullen looking teen with a pink stripe in her hair, and a mouth full of metal. “She just got her braces off. Jimmy” He tapped the oldest one who was skinny as a rail. “Paper, we call him. He’s gettin’ ready for uni.”  


“Hmmm…” Eliot flicked his hair and retied it; and was really glad he’d spent enough time in Sydney and a few other places to know that everyone had nicknames, and uni was actually university.  


“The youngest is Benjamin, Tam we call him. He loves Tim Tams!” Kevin’s eye’s crinkled as he remembered Tam eating an entire packet of the chocolate cookie in a couple minutes just a couple days before he left.”  


“Yall have good memories around the table on Sundays.” Eliot finished his beer and carefully put it in the sink with the others that Susie was getting ready to wash. “You gonna be here for a bit?”  


“Yeah, game’s on.” The Australian gestured at the television. “Ain’t got nowhere else to go; the wife’s packing up the house in Sydney getting ready to move here.”  


Eliot looked up at the screen to where a game of Australian rules football was now being played and smacked the counter. “Kev, my man. You are in luck; gimme twenty minutes; I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up.”  


Kevin looked over in surprise as the stocky long haired man strode away and shook his head in disbelief; he really didn’t think much could cheer him up right now.  


Going into the walk-in refrigerator he knew there was some puff pastry in there, some leftover roast beef from lunch, onion, carrot, peas, and potato. Nope, no potatoes in meat pie; that was for the English version and peas were usually served on the side if it was a dinner dish along with more gravy. They actually had gravy already made too, also from the roast beef. The lunch special had been open faced roast beef sandwiches with gravy and mashed potatoes on the side or cooked peas and carrots  


The hitter, and head chef grabbed the things he wanted and kicked the door shut on his way out. He turned the oven four hundred twenty-five degrees with this elbow, dumped everything onto the prep table and picked up one of the miniature pie plates; that they used for individual key lime pies. Singing along with the radio station Mark, the line cook had tuned it to, Eliot carefully lined the pan with a circle of puff pastry and set it aside. “It's a country music, a little soul, it's a rock 'n roll rodeo. We don't tolerate no sitting around.”  


Eliot minced the beef and put it into a small bowl, adding a dash of pepper for flavor, and a little bit of diced carrot for color, and kept singing “_Everybody's dancin', groovin' and getting on down. So before you come in here with some kind of attitude._”  


He thought about that dinner with Lachie’s crazy family; and brawl later that night in the local pub. Eliot added in a couple of spoons of gravy and a hefty amount of diced onion, stirring it all together. _“Where the girls do the thing with the Mardis Gras beads. Yeah, You know they're gonna show 'em if they got 'em_  


Eliot dumped the gravy, meat, vegetable mixture into the small pan and carefully covered it with the second sheet of puff pastry he’d just rolled and cut out. Fingering the edges into a solid seal he pierced the top with a couple of air holes and slid the pan into the oven. Singing “_There’s no such thing as last call. We pick ‘em up when they fall. We share the same bathroom stall. Says the sign on the wall._” Eliot set the timer and went out to watch the rest of the game; it had been a while since he’d seen Australian Rules football. He liked the game, though there wasn’t as much action as the American version of football which he’d grown up on. Not as much running as soccer, but more action than rugby. It was kind of a mix of handballing, kicking monstrous long shots between four tall poles, with a lot of tacking and high catches; marks they called them. These tackles and possessions were the best; even those that didn’t know the game well, would often agree on what was a bloody top mark.  


Kev and Eliot watched the game in companionable silence. It was a nice break from the constant chatter that Hardison always seemed to need. It was either his latest World of Warcraft quest, his newest hack, and lately anything and everything about hops. The different varieties from Cascade to Fuggle and Liberty. If they should be using cultivated yeasts; or wild yeasts. Nate understood silence; but, his was often more of the brooding alcohol induced type of silence. Not a very pleasant type. Sophie was more of the silence in the day-spa type; or silence during a manicure pedicure. Not silence just for the sake of silence. And Parker… Well, she was just Parker; and that was all that could be said about that.  


The hitter savored the lack of small talk, watched the game and waited for the timer in his hand to go off. Good food couldn’t be rushed; even when it only took a little while for it make rushing it wouldn’t help. When the timer went off Eliot ambled into the kitchen and plated the hot meat pie, adding a sprig of parsley to the plate and a small bowl of warm gravy. On his way back to the bar he grabbed one of the silverware rolls that Amy had been working on earlier. It still boggled his mind that someone had tried to kidnap her. Parker had done good saving her with only one leg.  


When he slid the plate in front of the Aussie, Kevin’s eyes widened as he smelled the hot steam coming from the meat pie. The odors of onion, beef and gravy with just a hint of rosemary brought tears to his eyes. “Whoa… For me, mate?”  


Eliot nodded and shrugged.  


Kevin’s eyes stared at the plate of food in front of him and slowly cut the pie open releasing all the scents directly into his nose. He took a bite and slowly chewed, the flavors rolling over his tongue. He closed his eyes and between the flavors and the sound of the telly Kevin felt like he was home; home with Prissy and kids.  


Watching the expressions roll over the homesick Aussie’s face, Eliot smiled. This was why he cooked!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Susie and Mark are OC’s I’ve completely taken from jendavis’ awesome story Closing Time located over on fanfiction.net. I truly hope she doesn’t mind. The waitress Amy is from _The Broken Wing Job_. the description of Sunday roast are taken from the December 2012 issue of Saveur magazine. I did change up a few things; but, the food is pretty true to the issue. Dean, Lachie, and Chase Gallagher are from the Australian TV show called _Rescue Special Ops_; a great show to binge-watch while folding laundry.


	6. Where's Waldo?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, kudoing (I swear that is a word) and following. **Gaben**, as always you are a lifesaver and an awesome beta! For some reason this series resonates with me. I love it, and know that I don’t update it enough. I've been on hiatus for the last couple weeks; my youngest son was in an accident with my in-laws and is in a body cast, my in-laws are in a rehab facility now. A long road ahead- but, everyone should heal.

Some people that didn’t know Eliot too well would assume that Elliot was just a brawler; a very skilled brawler. Those people would also most likely assume that his favorite city in the world was Rio de Janeiro, home of the Gracie family MMA legacy, or Tel Aviv because of the facility not too far from it where Shayetet 13 trained, or maybe Phuket and its Muay Thai training facilities, or Swanbourne Australia and the SAS regiment there. Yeah, he’d been to all of them; trained with and in them; and bled in them. And had many a beverage after hours with a bunch of different folks that he was honored to call friends and colleagues.  
  
There were others who would swear that Nashville, Tennessee was Eliot’s favorite city in the world. These were the people who’d only heard his pitch perfect voice singing in harmony with the twang of a steel guitar in the background. Other people who’d heard Eliot lift his heart and voice singing Amazing Grace with the choir at the Methodist church would swear that New Orleans, the home of Mahalia Jackson had to be his favorite. Or maybe Memphis…  
  
But, to those that had only tasted Eliot’s food; well they would swear up and down that he’d had extensive classical training at somewhere like Le Cordon Bleu had caused such an influence on his food and that Paris had to be his favorite city. Well, except for those that had eaten his chili; they would say that Austin, Texas with the mix of amazing food and music had to be his favorite. The folk that eaten his fried catfish, hush-puppies, okra and tomatoes, collards, and black-eyed peas would swear up and down that he had to love Alabama, ‘cause ain’t no one outside of the deep south could make collards or black-eyed peas right!  
  
Horses. For too long they’d scared the bejeezus out of Parker. And the first few times they’d worked together she woulda’ sworn that his favorite place had to someplace in Kentucky because they had all those horses and that big race. Or it could have been Baltimore, Maryland; or elew York. The other two sites for the Triple Crown horse races to be exact. Although, at least Baltimore had a Grand prix event; even if it had only lasted a couple of years. Now, car racing was something Parker understood and liked.  
  
Cars… Something Eliot truly did love. Mechanical beasts which had a heart and could be as fickle any female. Some of the guys on the team would swear that Monterey, California and the race track, Laguna Seca would be one of his favorite spots. The water, food, and cars – they made a paradise. Others would say Le Mans, or the area in Germany around the Nürburgring. Nice, but not his favorite place in the world. And none of them would say that anything resembling the area around the Dakar rally; original or relocated, was his favorite spot.  
  
Quinn had grumped after attempting to find Eliot once, that Waldo, California had to be his favorite city in the world. That mad guess had Eliot quirking his eyebrow at the man. Waldo Oregon was more like it. Although Waldo, Maine wasn’t too bad. Neither was Waldo Canyon, Australia; except it had burned. But, the hitter just shook his head… Even though Quinn hadn’t been far off.  
  
No Eliot’s favorite place was home. And the definition of home… Well that was variable. Currently home was Portland, Oregon and the brewpub. Home was with Hardison, Parker, Sophie, and Nate. Last year home had been the farmhouse in New Hampshire, which wasn’t too far from Maine. But, Waldo County Maine was a pretty good trek.  
  
Home was where he felt safe, and had access to the things he enjoyed: Good friends, good music, and good food. Horses were an added benefit. Pretty much anywhere could be home. There were a few distinct exceptions: Burma, the whole country! Islamabad, just the name made him shudder. Korea was on the list too; both North and South. The South was nice enough; it just had the unfortunate distinction of being the jumping off point for getting to North Korea. Nope home was good… Eliot looked over the team and went back to mincing onions for dinner.

> Where we love is home,  
Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”

~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short; but, it seemed to fit my mood and the time of year. Now go and read the rest of my awesome fics! This loosely ties in with and Loss.


	7. Billings, MT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm a flaming ditz! So, here is the proper chapter: Billings, Montana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! The dreaded song fic. I know I can’t stand most song fics; but, they just seemed to fit into this fic. And sadly I think that enough people don’t know the words, or the love that the American fighting forces have for these songs. So I’ve put in most of the words to them. I know that the Marine Corps Hymn was the first song I ever learned to sing; some mother’s sing Rock-a-bye baby to their kids: My mother sang “From the Halls of Montezuma…” So this story is in honor of my father, and the Marines with whom he proudly served. And really this story should be listed in both Cities and Luxuries & Loss. And it is also a cross-over with ** Always-Underrated’s** story Dude, Where’s My Car? So read that too if you haven’t.

“What makes a hero?” Eliot thought to himself, he’d watched enough ceremonies while he was in the military. Ones that declared people; Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines heros. He’d fought with some of them, gone on missions with them; most of them were just ordinary people. Not extraordinary. 

Hero was a word that Eliot reserved for people like Glenn Davis. People that hadn’t just walked the walk of being a soldier; but, had believed it. And then had gone on to teach the next generation of soldier, Eliot had met him when he was in BUDS and Glenn had been brought in for joint-service training. He’d kicked Eliot’s ass from one side of Coronado to the other; drunk and had his back with him in bars on the other side of the world; and then done it all over again when Eliot had joined the ranks of retrieval specialists. 

It had been almost a week since he’d left Boston driving to Portland; he’d stopped in a couple of places to take in the sites, visited some friends in St Louis, and was just generally not pushing himself too hard. They’d been pushing pretty hard the last few months they’d been in Boston. It just seemed right to stop in Billings and pay respects to Glenn at Montana Veteran’s Cemetery. 

Eliot found the section of the cemetery where Glenn’s headstone was located, parked and grabbed an old wooden cigar box from under his seat where he’d placed it before he’d started driving this morning. The retrieval specialist walked the short distance to his mentor’s grave and sank down on the damp grass leaning against the headstone.

It was a day Eliot wished he still prayed; because Glenn of all people deserved to be prayed over. Instead he lifted the lid of the cigar box and pulled out a cigar, cut the end off, and lit it. He very carefully puffed on it and let out a smoke ring just like Glenn had taught him one night when they’d been in Columbia on a retrieval. Pausing for a couple moments Eliot smiled as he thought about that job in Cartagana. They’d been paid, quite handsomely, to get a statuette back from a drug lord to return it to the Espinoza family. Not that the Espinoza’s were any nicer. They moved people and other things across borders instead of getting children hooked on cocaine.

The two of them had been in a bar waiting for their plane when Glenn had pulled out two cigars and handed one to Eliot. The hitter had lit the cigar and inhaled just like he’d learned when he’d been in the service, and had promptly started choking and just about puked his guts outs! Glenn had just pounded him on the back and started laughing. 

“Fucking allergies.” Eliot grumbled to himself as he wiped a tear away and reached into the cigar box pulling out two shot glasses engraved with ‘The Budwiser’ or to people that didn’t know: The United States Navy Special Operations Warfare Insignia. The hitter took another puff on the Rocky Patel Fifty Robusto which while not a super expensive cigar, was Glenn’s favorite. And the cigar he’d always smoke to celebrate a successful job. 

Glenn had given Eliot shit about having a pair of engraved shot glasses; but, dammit Eliot had earned the right to own something with that insignia on it. And unlike a lot of guys in his unit he hadn’t gotten the Trident tattooed on his body. The hitter reached into the cigar box one last time and drew out a small flask; this had the Green Beret insignia etched into the steel case. Carefully Eliot loosened the lid and poured a shot of Jameson’s Irish whiskey into each of the glasses. 

Standing up with the two shot glasses in his hand, Eliot carefully placed the cigar on the ground and tossed one of the shots back and poured the other out. He stood at attention in a manner so formal that his old training officers would have been proud and rendered a salute to a true American hero.

Relaxing his salute Eliot reached down for his cigar and began to sing:

> March along, sing our song, with the Army of the free.  
Count the brave, count the true, who have fought to victory.  
We’re the Army and proud of our name!  
We’re the Army and proudly proclaim:
> 
> First to fight for the right,  
And to build the Nation’s might,  
And The Army Goes Rolling Along.  
Proud of all we have done,  
Fighting till the battle’s won,  
And the Army Goes Rolling Along.
> 
> Then it’s hi! hi! hey!  
The Army’s on its way.  
Count off the cadence loud and strong;  
For where’er we go,  
You will always know  
That The Army Goes Rolling Along. 

The former Navy SEAL poured a second pair of shots, puffed on his cigar and repeated the drinking and pouring ritual. Because when he and Glenn had celebrated, they’d never had just one shot. And out of pure spite (and because it had always annoyed Glenn) Eliot started to sing again:

> Stand, Navy, out to sea, Fight our battle cry;  
We'll never change our course, So vicious foe steer shy-y-y-y;  
Roll out the TNT, Anchors Aweigh;  
Sail on to victory, and sink their bones to Davy Jones, hooray!
> 
> Anchors Aweigh, my boys, Anchors Aweigh!  
Farewell to college joys, we sail at break of day-ay-ay-ay;  
Through our last night on shore, drink to the foam,  
Until we meet once more, here's wishing you a happy voyage home!
> 
> Stand Navy down the field; Sails set to the sky;  
We'll never change our course, So Army you steer shy-y-y-y;  
Roll up the score, Navy, Anchors Aweigh;  
Sail Navy down the field, And sink the Army, sink the Army Grey!
> 
> Get underway, Navy, Decks cleared for the fray;  
We'll hoist true Navy Blue,So Army down your Grey-y-y-y;  
Full speed ahead, Navy; Army heave to;  
Furl Black and Grey and Gold, And hoist the Navy, hoist the Navy Blue!
> 
> Blue of the Seven Seas, Gold of God's great sun;  
Let these our colors be Till, All of time be done-n-n-ne;  
By Severn shore we learn, Navy's stern call:  
Faith, courage, service true, With honor over, honor over all! 

The fight song of the Naval Academy. A song that had always gotten Glenn’s goat which was exactly why Eliot sang it! And sang it with gusto in his earthy twang. Lord it had been a long time since he’d sung that song.

Eliot sank back down to the ground leaning against Glenn’s headstone and remembered. He remembered sitting in that grungy bar in Rota Spain standing on a table singing that damn fight song at the top of his lungs while Glenn was standing on the next table over singing… No yelling “The Caisson Song” as loud as his deep voice would go. He also remembered getting into a fight with a couple of fucking Marines who decided to sing “The Marines' Hymn” at the top of their lungs.

> “From the Halls of Montezuma,  
To the Shores of Tripoli;  
We fight our country's battles  
In the air, on land, and sea;  
First to fight for right and freedom  
And to keep our honor clean;  
We are proud to claim the title  
Of **UNITED STATES MARINES**”

Needless to say a giant bar brawl had erupted and ten Sailors, Soldiers, Marines, and one effing Air Force NCO had all been tossed in the city jail together. Fuck, Glenn had done some fast talking to get them out of there! It was amazing even by Sophie standards.

Eliot looked down at his Robusto and saw that it had gone out. Even the sky had done grey. Yeah, it was time to go. The hitter replaced the flask and shot glasses back into the cigar box and left the cigar on the top of Glenn’s headstone. Some people might consider it desecration; but, Eliot knew that Glenn would appreciate the fact that someone had thought to bring him a cigar. Or in the views of the Sioux Indians, Glenn would be happy to know that his friend observed kinnikinnik. Which traditionally was the smoking of sacred tobacco in a sacred pipe in a tipi. And while the Rocky Patel Fifty Robusto might not fit the Sioux’s idea of sacred pipe and tobacco, the bond that Eliot and Glenn and their ritual of smoking a Rocky Patel Fifty Robusto far outweighed the idea of putting tobacco in a pipe. Eliot just hoped that his practice was reverent enough that that the smoke could send his thoughts to Glenn; and that the Jameson’s would reach Glenn in the after-life and give him sustenance in his journey.

Looking down at his watch, the hitter realized it was lunch time and his stomach was grumbling. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a penny, a nickel , and a dime and carefully placed them on top of the stone pressing his fingers on top of them for a second before he headed back to his truck to find a feast. Feasting was the way that the Sioux traditionally ended their death rituals. So to find a feast!

As he drove from the west side of town to the center Eliot was amazed at how much Billings had changed since he’d last been here almost six, well actually seven years ago. The hitter drove past the neon Joe Do-It sign, and noticed that the neon wasn’t working anymore. Two more blocks east and then he turned towards the Rim Rocks up to Sixth Avenue and looked for the little white building that was Mamacita’s Café. The best Mexican food he’d ever eaten. Eliot had been skeptical until Glenn had taken him; and well he was a convert! It wasn’t a complicated menu, just had a few individual items on it; but, it ended up being two pages when you got all the combinations together. Tacos, tamales, refried beans, homemade tortillas, … Nothing fancy; but, all of it homemade and made with love!

He turned into the parking lot and the sign didn’t say Mamacita’s anymore. Still, Eliot got out and asked the guy in the parking lot if Mamacita had moved.

“Ay yup.” Responded the old guy smoking a cigarette in the parking lot.

“Do you know where?” This was just like talking to the old-timers at home. Short on words, unless they felt they knew you. Then they’d talk your ear off.

“Yep.” The tall thin man with Phil embroidered on his shirt grunted.

“Can you tell me?” Eliot offered a light as Phil went to light a new cigarette, the hitter didn’t smoke; but a lighter came in handy a lot. So he always made sure he had one on or around him.

“Ay Yup…” Phil paused as he took a drag on his cigarette. “It’s down on Nineteenth Street just south of Fourth Avenue.”

Climbing back into his truck the hitter drove the few blocks and found the very unassuming white building that was Mamacita’s. He parked in the back and walked around to the front of the white clapboard building. Opening the door he closed his eyes for a second and let the smell of cumin, meat, chilies, and most of all… Love wash over him. 

The inside was no more impressive than the outside; but, Eva was behind the counter with a girl. Well a girl when compared in age to Eva. He got handed a menu as she delivered a basket of chips with little bowls of red and green salsa to his booth. Well, it could be called a booth; it wouldn’t fit more than two adults. Eliot supposed you could fit a family there as long as the kids were tiny! He scanned through the menu and ordered the same thing he’d always gotten: The combo plate, and a beer. Yep, still no tap; just bottles of Tecate, Molson, and something else. Well, as always… Tecate it was. Not one of Eliot’s preferred beers; but, you drank what was available, and this was in honor of Glenn!

While he was waiting for his combo plate Eliot read The Thrifty Nickel, a local mostly classified ad publication which had everything from cars and tractors for sale, to yard sale announcements and animals to adopt. As well as the local church announcements, store sales, and the such…

The ‘girl’ delivered the combo plate as the Leverage team’s hitter was working through the vehicle sale section and munching on the homemade tortilla chips. Huh, there was nice log splitter for sale over in Laurel; which if Eliot remembered was only a few miles away. A log splitter was something the house in New Hampshire could use. But, he wasn’t going to haul a log splitter back to New Hampshire from Montana – about two thousand miles give or take a couple of miles.

Eliot tucked into his chile verde, or brown goo as Glenn used to call it. It was chunks of pork browned, and then slow simmered with jalapeños, onion and a tasty brown gravy. The hitter swirled a little of the green jalapeño and garlic based salsa into the chile verde, it gave it a nice heat. He turned the page of The Thrifty Nickel and took a swig of beer. There were some very nice horses for sale outside of Bridger. He took a bite of tamale. Mmm… He thought to himself. Perfect! The pork was flavored with garlic, cumin, and chili powder. The cumin was quite distinctive. The meat was moist, tender and juicy. The dough was tender and had a hint of meat taste to it.

The beans had a bit of smoke to them, bacon. Eliot nodded to himself and savored the artery clogging food that he rarely allowed himself; but, Glenn had declared the twelfth wonder of the world. “To Glenn.” The hitter acknowledged his mentor and drank a little of his beer feeling the contrast of textures between the carbonated beverage, the smoothness of the beans and roughness of the masa based dough. “_To Glenn, a soldier, a teacher, and a gentleman. A prince among men_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I guess some explanations are in order. An NCO is a non-commissioned officer – over simplified: enlisted. The Rocky Patel Fifty Robusto is a real type of cigar; I still think cigars stink! And a robusto is one of the shapes and sizes that cigars come in, and according to the internet (which we all know is always right!) Corona, Panatela, Lonsdale, Lancero, Churchill, Robusto, Toro, Presidente, Gigante, and Torpedo. I picked the particular one because it was mid-sized and seemed not to be absurd. As for the burial rituals in a lot of cultures it is very common to bury tobacco and food with the body of a loved one. Yes, I do a metric butt-ton of research for each of these fics so I hope that I get it correct. The Souix burial rituals were discussed in depth in a refereed journal article – which I plowed through to put two sentences into this story, sigh… the things I do for the sake of accuracy.  
Mamacita’s was a real restaurant in Billings, MT. And probably the best Mexican restaurant I’ve ever eaten in. The food is simple and homemade, and even better she has a cookbook. Get it! The chile verde she makes is to die for!!! I'm very sad that Eva decided to retire; but, I'm very glad that I got a chance to get her cookbook, and eat many meals that she made.


	8. Rome

Rome in August was deserted. Everyone that could afford to, well they left, August was hot, sticky, and often smelly. There was a garbage strike, which was making everything even worse! The garbage was piled up in the streets; even the street sweepers weren’t operating, so everything was awash in garbage and pigeon shit. Not really Eliot’s idea of a fun stop over; but, Parker just had to see some exhibit at the Galleria Borghese; he would have much rather have gone to the Museo Nazionale delle Arti del XXI Secolo. There was an exhibit there, and well… he knew the curator! But, no they weren’t going to MAXXI, the nickname for the Museo Nazionale delle… yeah, the name was too long. Nope, they were going to the Borghese. At least he was going to get a good lunch. Not at one of those places featured in the guidebooks, like the Colline Emiliane, or the Alle Carrette which did have really good pizza even if it was always mobbed with tourists.

Eliot was following Parker, Hardison, Sophie, and Nate through the galleries in the Borghese. They were all looking at different things; but, generally walking in the same direction. This left Eliot the time and space to admire some truly awesome Renaissance art; he wasn’t a fan of the Baroque period. It was a little too overdone for him. So, should they go for Carciofi alla Giudìa at that little place in the Jewish ghetto? Fried artichokes would be something everyone would like. They were fried, so Hardison would eat them; and appropriately sophisticated enough that Sophie would eat them. Nate wasn’t too fussy; and Parker would probably eat them. 

Staring at yet another Caravaggio made the hitter think of Coda alla Vaccinara, and that restaurant near the Pantheon which had perfected the slow cooked oxtails in tomato sauce. Hmmm… the tender meat with pine nuts and raisins. Staring at Titian’s Sacred and Profane Love made him think about simplicity. Cacio e Pepe; pasta with pecorino romano cheese and black pepper. That is all that is in it: pasta, cheese, and pepper. One of the simplest dishes on the face of it; but, it needed fresh pasta, good quality cheese, a dash of pasta water, and just the perfect amount of pepper. Three ingredients melding together into simple perfection.

“Sparky! When are we eating?” Parker punched Eliot on the shoulder breaking him out of his reverie. “I want French fries.”

“Parker, its Italy!” Eliot growled. “We’re in the cradle of Roman cuisine. That means Bucatini all’Amatriciana, Pasta Carbonara, Pasta alla gricia; not French fries and chicken nuggets.”

“Chicken nuggets?” Alec chimed in from over Parker’s shoulder, “you mean we don’t need to eat anymore of this fancy stuff?”

“Grrr…” Eliot grumbled “Bland American palates.” And he made his decision on food. Cacio e Pepe, that way he didn’t have to listen to either Parker or Hardison whine about ‘weird food.’ It would mean a little bit of a walk, where they would all have to listen to Sophie complain about how the cobblestones were wrecking her new shoes. At least this pair was a fairly sensible pair of flats; even if they probably had cost more than his first car.

Thinking about restaurants again, when Nate gave him a look of “Where are we eating?” it still amazed Eliot at how much their leader could convey with a look; and that they would all understand. The hitter decided on a restaurant and started calculating directions in his head. His preferred restaurant was almost eight kilometers away, the other side of the city. While he and Parker would be perfectly happy walking that; especially if Parker could get a snack on the way and Rome did have divine pastries to snack on. Hardison would whine endlessly; and between the hackers endless complaining and Sophie’s probably not great shoes… it would be easier to grab a cab. They should still probably stop and get Parker a snack; a profiterole, a cream puff, should tide her over until they were able to reach some substantial food. 

The group slowly started making their way onto the street with Eliot acting as the cat herder making sure that no one got too distracted by shiny objects, bars, or boutiques. The hitter finally found an open panetteria and got everyone a little snack after seeing the grifter eying the case of fresh cannoli shells. The filling had a touch of sherry in the filling made him think of Sicily, and the time he’d spent there with Cecily. A truly horrid pun; but, a really nice lady! The rest of that sojourn hadn’t been as fun, there had been a couple of explosions, small ones; but, had still done some structural damage to a truly beautiful building. Some running; well a lot of running and hiding from both the polizia and the carabinieri – not so fun. 

“No, we aren’t going that way.” Parker put her foot down when Eliot turned towards the Tiber River. 

“Huh?” Eliot grunted, while everyone looked at her oddly. 

Sophie paused for a second and then nodded. “Yes, let us go this way; there is some beautiful architecture over there. And it isn’t too far out of our way.”  
The small group turned away from the river and walked down a pretty street; it was pretty architecture, even if they were dodging garbage as they walked. Everything came into focus when the gates of both the Bulgarian and Polish embassies came into view. Parker stared at them and took pictures, attempting to look like a tourist; but, pretty blatantly taking pictures of the visible parts of the security system. “Ooh, they upgraded.”

“Oh.” Nate grunted politely, as he started looking for a taxi to flag down. It hadn’t been a ‘couple’ of blocks out of their way; it had been over a kilometer out of their way. It was hot, and he wanted a drink! They lucked out; two taxis happened their way; things like that never happened in Rome. Eliot passed the address to the driver and stuck Nate and Sophie into one cab; and got in the second with Parker and Alec, claiming shotgun. The hacker and his carsickness could stick it. It was very nice sitting in the air conditioned cab; away from garbage littering the streets and the smells emanating from them. Even if he was having to listen Hardison blab on and on about how awful Star Trek Voyager was. 

“Oh my God Hardison! How long do we have to listen to Star Wars crap?”

“Star Wars! This is Star Trek, man!! Have I taught you nothing?”

“Star Trek: Voyager is the abomination of the Star Trek ‘verse. It had few redeeming features. Well, except for Seven of Nine.”  
“Seven of Nine?”

Parker chimed in “The hot one, the one that looks like Tara.”

Searching back through all the stupid television shows that Hardison had made him watch over the last couple years. “Oh, the hot one with the thing on her face.”

“Are we there yet?” Parker cut into the not so heated banter between the hitter and the hacker.

Hardison rolled his eyes; both at Parker’s question and at how could anyone not see that Seven of Nine revolutionized the science fiction genre. Well, her and Captain Janeway. Putting a female in charge of a Federation ship; was a game changer for women in the twentieth century. 

“Parker, we just got in the cab.” 

“Star Trek has forever changed the entire genre. It is probably the single most important television show ever!” 

“Well, why are all of those shows cancelled?” Sometimes it was just too easy to rile up the Hacker. He seriously debated bringing up Firefly; the space western, a geek show he could get behind. But, that gave credence to his comment. 

In the side mirror Eliot could see Hardison looking like his head was going to blow up and started chuckling to himself as they pulled up to the small restaurant Eliot had picked.

It was a little mom and pop restaurant, a restaurant that tourists wouldn’t know existed: minimal signage; in a neighborhood not frequented by people that didn’t live in it; and on a back street. In fact the taxi driver had asked twice if they really wanted to go there. 

It had been a few years since Eliot had been there; but, Clint, Ray and he had some amazing food one night after a mission. A mission that while it had been rough, had been successful. They’d come up from Naples for some R&R. They’d spent an entire evening drinking red wine and bullshitting. It had been an awesome night. They’d eventually left and stumbled back to their hotel. Overall the R&R was a very memorable seventy-two hours! They didn’t violate the ‘buddy’ rule; but, they pretty much violated every other rule the Navy had imposed. Eliot still chuckled at how Clint had made a bow and arrow out of some garbage and shot flower arrows at women. Wasn’t quite sure how he got them to fly straight with minimal fletching; but, whatever it had been hilarious! 

Opening the door to the trattoria Eliot was hit in the face with the smells, and more memories from that night. The restaurant was simple; nothing fancy in this small neighborhood restaurant. Eliot looked over the rest of the team they all had a smile on their face, and were nodding appreciatively at the odors wafting from the kitchen. They were pointed to a table in the back; and Sophie ordered a bottle of red wine for the table.  
The hitter sat back; it was going to be a good evening!

**Author's Note:**

> There are several blink and you miss it cross-over references in here: Avengers and Rescue: Special Ops are the two main ones. I think that Clint and Eliot would have crossed paths; and given their hero proclivities would be 'friends,' well at least something more than collogues; I think that they could trust each other at least somewhat -- and have probably done some jobs together. Eliot and Lachie - both Special Forces; it's a very small circle there -- they've crossed paths. And I choose peacefully.


End file.
